


Look At You Now

by breathtaken



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Author's Favorite, Canon Era, Community: bbcmusketeerskink, Dubious Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Sexual Coercion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-28
Updated: 2014-09-28
Packaged: 2018-02-19 02:54:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2371865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/breathtaken/pseuds/breathtaken
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“What we did last night is normal,” Aramis says brusquely, hand coming up to rest against the back of d’Artagnan’s neck. “Certainly among soldiers. Once you’ve been on your first campaign, you’ll understand. Imagine – months out in the field with only the same twenty pox-ridden whores on offer, who’ve serviced the whole army before you… or a helping hand from a brother.”</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Look At You Now

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lilith_the_ancient](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lilith_the_ancient/gifts).



> Fill for [this](http://bbcmusketeerskink.dreamwidth.org/2286.html?thread=2522350%20) kink meme prompt.
> 
> Content warnings: **this is a dub-con sex fic** , in which Aramis is coercive and d’Artagnan is conflicted, but ultimately enjoys it.
> 
> My research into m/m sex in the 17th century suggests that most men would have been initiated into the practice while young, probably by an older man, and probably with a certain amount of coercion. Which isn’t intended as a justification of the lack of consent – the show is hardly a historical document itself – but is hopefully interesting information for my readers. (Jake Peralta voice: “Cool motive. Still dub-con.”)
> 
> For my OP at the kink meme; and also for the ladies of the science and literary salon.

D’Artagnan shifts under the blankets until he’s lying fully on his back, resisting the temptation to sigh aloud. He normally falls asleep within mere minutes, and this is starting to get frustrating. It’s his first time sharing a bed with no-one but Aramis, granted, but it’s not like his partner on this mission’s done anything to disrupt his sleep. In fact he’s surely asleep himself, though he’s lying still and so silent, d’Artagnan has to strain to even hear the sound of his breathing.

He closes his eyes, stretching his arms out by his sides, and is just resolving to fall asleep very, very soon when he hears a shift and a rustle of the blankets beside him, and cracks open one eye. In the dim light straining through the shutters he can just about make out Aramis pushing the blankets back off his body, and d’Artagnan’s fully expecting him to get up and use the pot; but Aramis stays perfectly still on the mattress, instead reaching down to the laces of his smallclothes.

D’Artagnan’s open eye snaps immediately shut, his face heating as he realises what’s happening.

 _Oh_.

 _Breathe_ , he reminds himself. Aramis obviously thinks he’s asleep, and he shouldn’t give him any cause to doubt that; though at the first harsh gasp from the other side of the bed he realises just how difficult it’s going to be to pretend he’s sleeping soundly, not at all affected by the sounds of his comrade touching himself right next to him.

It’s only as the rustle of fabric and Aramis’ hitches of breath fall into a regular rhythm that d’Artagnan belatedly realises that actually, the honourable thing to do would have been to turn over or make an obvious noise as soon as he realised what was happening, thereby signalling that he wasn’t asleep after all.

But he’s missed his moment – to give away his wakefulness now would be far too embarrassing for all concerned – and he will just have to lie here and listen.

It seems to go on for ages. D’Artagnan flushes even heavier with guilt when he realises he’s straining his ears for the sounds of skin on flesh; and he won’t look, he _refuses_ to, but he’s powerless to stop his imagination.

He can see the picture in his mind, clear as day: the hard cock curving out of Aramis’ linens, gripped firmly in his hand as he slides it up and down the shaft, foreskin caressing the head as he moves, all that delicious hot pressure – and d’Artagnan’s own cock is hardening rapidly now, pulse thumping insistently between his thighs, the frisson of taboo mixed with the sense memory of all the times he’s taken himself in hand like his brother is doing now.

When Aramis comes it’s on a harsh, jagged breath of air that’s not quite enough to wake a sleeper; and he lies flat for several seconds before pushing himself half off the mattress. There are a few more rustles of fabric before he pulls the blankets back over himself and turns towards d’Artagnan, whose tension is just starting to drain away at the realisation that it’s over when Aramis’ hand manages to land on his still fully-hard cock.

When he squeezes once, slowly and deliberately, d’Artagnan realises in guilty horror that he’s been _caught;_ even as it sends a flood of desire rushing through his body, and he has to bite his lip to keep from gasping.

“I thought so,” Aramis says – and oh, the _shame_ to realise that Aramis knew he was awake the entire time, awake and listening, d’Artagnan doesn’t know how he’ll ever be able to bear it. “Did you like what you saw?”

“I didn’t watch,” d’Artagnan manages, though it sounds weak even to him – and Aramis actually laughs.

“Well, aren’t you a paragon of virtue,” he teases – and his hand is still on the bulge in d’Artagnan’s linens, rocking his palm ever so slightly back and forth, a gentle rolling pressure that’s not like anything d’Artagnan has ever done to himself. “You were listening, though, weren’t you? Imagining it?”

“I’m sorry,” he whispers desperately; as if his remorse could ever be enough. “Please don’t…”

“Oh, I don’t _blame_ you,” Aramis reassures, his voice silken. “I’d have done the same, to be honest. To err is human, after all; and it’s probably my fault for providing temptation in the first place. Which is why it’s only fair if I help you out of your current predicament.”

D’Artagnan can feel the moment Aramis’ hand starts to undo the laces at his smalls; and something drops in his stomach, a mixture of desire and nameless dread.

“You can’t –”

Aramis’ hand stops.

“Oh you’ve not had a brother do this for you before?” He sounds genuinely surprised for a moment – and then sighs. “I’m sorry, I should have known. But I assure you, it’s perfectly normal. Not something to worry about.” His hand goes back to the laces, and when he reaches inside to draw out d’Artagnan’s cock, d’Artagnan can’t stop the low moan that rises up from the back of his throat, his body betraying him immediately.

He thinks about telling Aramis to stop, that he doesn’t want this; but the proof of his hardness clearly says otherwise.

“I’m – we can’t,” he repeats, hating how unsure he sounds already; and Aramis chuckles again, hand sliding firmly along his shaft. D’Artagnan can just about see the glint of his eyes in the near-darkness of the room.

“Why not?” he asks, amused. “I won’t tell if you don’t,” fingers ghosting over the head of d’Artagnan’s cock until his hips buck up into Aramis’ touch – and he shouldn’t allow this, shouldn’t _want_ it, but he runs hot-blooded and it’s so _good_ to have someone else touch him after all this time; so he says nothing at all, bending his knees and jamming his hands behind his thighs, pressing his face to the pillow in shame.

When he spills, Aramis catches his seed in his hand; and d’Artagnan would have expected he wouldn’t be able to sleep at all afterwards, but the orgasm leaves his traitorous body relaxed and drowsy, and the next thing he knows it’s morning, and he lies determinedly abed until Aramis goes downstairs for breakfast so he doesn’t have to face him just yet.

When he does, it’s hell. Just the two of them, together – Aramis is his usual self, charming and cordial, eating heartily and attempting to start a conversation in between mouthfuls; and d’Artagnan’s picking at his food and unable to look him in the eye, without even Athos or Porthos present to deflect attention away from him.

All the conflicted desire of the night before has evaporated; and all d’Artagnan is left with is the shame, like a mantle weighing him down. Even sitting and breakfasting inside the inn makes him nauseous with anxiety – every time someone passes he has to look away, convinced that they must be able to read the events of last night in his face.

It’s only a little better when they get on the road: d’Artagnan’s horse is skittish beneath him, unnerved by his master’s mood, and he answers every question in monosyllables, gazing at the road ahead, unseeing.

Aramis tolerates this until almost noon; and when they’ve stopped to let the horses graze he walks over and puts his hands heavily on d’Artagnan’s shoulders, grip firm even through the leather.

D’Artagnan jumps, and hates himself for it.

“I need you to get it together now,” Aramis says, voice low and forceful in d’Artagnan’s ear. “We’re getting into dangerous country, and I need you to be alert, not disappeared inside your own head.”

D’Artagnan swallows, and doesn’t respond. He’s flashing hot one moment and cold the next, and he has no idea what the hell to say.

“What we did last night is normal,” Aramis says brusquely, hand coming up to rest against the back of d’Artagnan’s neck. “Certainly among soldiers. Once you’ve been on your first campaign, you’ll understand. Imagine – months out in the field with only the same twenty pox-ridden whores on offer, who’ve serviced the whole army before you… or a helping hand from a brother. It’s been happening this way since the Greeks. We may not talk about it, but we all do it.”

“Even Athos?” d’Artagnan says – and then curses himself immediately, why the fuck did he have to ask _that,_ of all the possible questions – but Aramis just laughs.

“Well, not Athos,” he amends. “The man’s a positive monk. But I’d say that most of the men in the regiment have been known to indulge. And would with you too, if you were interested.”

“I don’t think so,” d’Artagnan replies, suddenly uneasy. However conflicted he feels about Aramis doing what he did, Aramis he at least knows, and d’Artagnan trusts him  – even with this, weird as the idea is. The idea of any of the other men in the regiment putting their hand on his prick turns his stomach.

“Their loss,” Aramis replies breezily. “But you need to accept it, is my point, and stop worrying. You need to be able to focus, and you need to stop looking at me the way you did this morning. It may have been briefly charming, but you’d give us away to anyone who’s known you longer than five minutes.”

Without warning, he shoves rudely at d’Artagnan’s back; and he stumbles, arms coming up to steady himself against the closest tree just in time.

“Brace yourself,” Aramis instructs, as one gloved hand comes round to cup d’Artagnan firmly through his breeches.

“You just need to get used to this,” he murmurs, breath hot against d’Artagnan’s ear now as his hands start to undo to the buttons on his breeches, “and I can help you. Think of it as another part of soldiering, if you like. Everyone likes a hand on their prick. The only difference is that the hand doesn’t always have to be your own.”

D’Artagnan screws his eyes shut as Aramis reaches inside his linens to grasp his cock, already thickening and lengthening as his blood rushes south, and coaxing it to hardness.

 _I should stop this_ , he thinks again; but the voice in his mind is fainter this time, and less determined, slowly drowned out by the thundering of his pulse in his ears and the feeling of the suede leather gripping him, both soft and rough against his heated flesh.

Aramis presses his hips against d’Artagnan’s arse, the line of his own hardness slotting between his cheeks; as if there was any danger of him forgetting what this is, d’Artagnan thinks near-hysterically.

“Why don’t you watch, hmm?” Aramis encourages, his other hand squeezing d’Artagnan’s waist. “Watch my hand on you. You’ll like it.”

As d’Artagnan carefully opens his eyes, he realises that whatever he was expecting, it certainly wasn’t this. The sight of Aramis’ gloved hand working his erection where it juts obscenely out from his breeches, in full daylight, no less, is almost too much; and he has to stifle a groan as the urge for release begins to build in him.

“Don’t,” Aramis says conversationally, “come on my glove.”

“I’m – I –”

He can’t bring himself to say it; but fortunately Aramis seems to understand, and d’Artagnan almost groans in frustration when he takes his hand away completely.

“Finish yourself off,” Aramis commands, and pulls away from d’Artagnan entirely, leaving him floundering, stranded – but the urgent need to come outweighs his mortification, and he takes his cock in hand as he listens to the sound of Aramis removing his glove and undoing his own breeches, the breathy little moan as he takes himself in hand; and d’Artagnan hates himself just a little for the gratitude he feels when Aramis’ other hand comes up to grasp the back of his neck, holding him in place as he shudders and comes.

D’Artagnan watches his seed dribbling against the base of the tree trunk, and hears the soft groan as Aramis spills behind him; and rearranges himself as slowly as he dares, his mind deliberately blank.

“Come on,” Aramis says eventually, tone entirely businesslike – and when d’Artagnan turns reluctantly to look at him again there’s no trace of what they’ve just done together, either in the lines of his uniform or the expression on his face. “We’re losing time.”

It takes d’Artagnan the best part of an hour to realise that the second time… helped, as much as he could never bring himself to admit to it out loud. Watching the way Aramis swung himself back into the saddle and carried on, mind fully on their mission as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred made d’Artagnan realise that for Aramis at least, maybe nothing did.

Maybe this truly does mean so little.

Either way, d’Artagnan’s enough himself again that he manages to stay alert to the possibility of any trouble on the road, though luckily they don’t encounter any; and he even manages to hold something approaching a conversation. They’re still silent most of the time, but d’Artagnan decides it’s not a silence heavy with the weight of things unsaid, but the silence of those who have nothing they need to say.

Still, the knowledge of what they’ve done together thrums in his blood; and even though he’s physically sated for now, he feels a constant prickle of arousal like a thread running under his skin, throughout the afternoon and well into evening. They’re forced to camp in the open that night, darkness falling before there’s any sign of an inn; and subsist on bread, fruit and dried meat from their packs, deciding to forgo building a fire for fear of attracting unwanted attention.

D’Artagnan finds he isn’t surprised when Aramis lays out their two bedrolls as one, and makes no move to protest. He’s slept out in the open before, after all, and he knows that sharing body heat is the sensible thing to do.

He’s never thought anything of it, before now.

“Let’s keep each other warm, hmm?” Aramis murmurs as he climbs on top of d’Artagnan, bracing himself on one arm as he tucks the edge of the blanket close against d’Artagnan’s side with the other hand; and it’s that consideration which makes d’Artagnan feel suddenly, shockingly vulnerable, even more than the way that Aramis then reaches promptly down to unbutton d’Artagnan’s breeches.

D’Artagnan starts to lift his own hand to reciprocate – and falters. While he knows very well what Aramis expects of him, he can’t quite bring himself to take that step.

Everything that’s happened between them so far has been done _to_ him, for all that he’s let it; the notion of actually taking an active part is something else entirely.

It’s not until Aramis swears softly under his breath and says, a little frustrated, “Help me out with this, would you?” that d’Artagnan realises he’s trying and failing to get his breeches open one-handed; and it seems churlish to resist, he decides as he reaches down with both hands past the billowing fabric of Aramis’ shirt to undo his own buttons, and then the bow securing the lacing beneath, gazing over Aramis’ shoulder to pick out the few stars he can see through the treetops.

“D’Artagnan. Look at me,” Aramis insists, low and urgent; and d’Artagnan’s obeyed before he even realises, because he’s never been able to resist a fucking command in his life, has he – and it’s as though Aramis’ gaze pins him in place, strips him open down to the heart and lays bare all the confusion and shame there, the reluctance and the persistent desire.

“Good,” Aramis smiles down at him kindly, and d'Artagnan feels his heart thumping double-time as Aramis turns his hand and presses it palm-first against his own crotch, d’Artagnan’s fingers closing involuntarily around the bulge of his erection. “Now it’s your turn, go on.”

Not daring to reply, d’Artagnan undoes all the fastenings at Aramis’ crotch with thick and clumsy fingers, and after only a moment’s hesitation, reaches in to close his fingers around Aramis’ half-hard cock, drawing it carefully out.

“Mmm,” Aramis hums in pleasure as d’Artagnan squeezes just a little, blinking slow and heavy-lidded as though he’s waking from a dreamless sleep. “You know what to do.”

D’Artagnan does – just what he would do for himself, he assumes; and the weight of Aramis’ cock in his hand doesn’t feel so different to his own.

Aramis’ hand curls around d’Artagnan’s cock in a mirror of his movements as they both slowly begin to push their fists up and down; and though it’s barely been a day, he realises that Aramis’ touch is starting to do something to him that he isn’t sure he can bear to examine too closely, the scent of him becoming one of familiarity, of confused, hesitant pleasure.

He doesn’t try and look away again.

After that Aramis has him every night, and a lot of the days too, under blankets and against walls and behind hedgerows until d’Artagnan learns every nuance of his particular speculative expression – _like he’s looking at a target,_ d’Artagnan’s brain helpfully supplies – and his cock starts to twitch already in response. It’s more pleasure in a week than he’s had in months; and there’s little wonder, he supposes, that his body is learning to respond to certain signals.

He knows, really, that he’s being trained – Aramis has basically said as much. It’s hard to think about, but d’Artagnan supposes it’s better than getting back to Paris still unable to look at him – or unable to look away – and having everyone who looks at them know. Having _Athos_ know.

 _It doesn’t mean anything_ , he reminds himself, _that’s kind of the point._ Yet he still can’t shake the feeling that Athos would disapprove. Would be disappointed, even; though he knows enough to know that Athos is hardly high-minded, and from what Aramis said, knows all too well the kind of things that go on between his fellow soldiers.

Still. The last thing d’Artagnan wants is to be a disappointment; and so he lets himself be touched, and touches in return when the moment requires it, firmly telling every lingering doubt and shame that it’s for the best.

On the fifth day, Aramis conjures a small vial of oil from a pouch on his sword belt, the sight suddenly making d’Artagnan’s heart race – both from the suspicion that Aramis had _planned_ this, all this time, and the fear of what he’s going to do – but when he oils up his cock it’s to push it between the cleft of d’Artagnan’s arse, fucking between his thighs as he takes d’Artagnan’s cock in his own hand, his grip firm and familiar.

The double assault on d’Artagnan’s sensations is new, both the knowledge that Aramis’ cock is _there_ as well as the feeling of it rubbing back and forth along sensitive flesh; and when a sudden moan escapes him Aramis hums in pleasure and nuzzles at the skin below his ear, murmuring _good, that’s good, let me hear it,_ and d’Artagnan realises for the first time that Aramis _likes_ it when he responds.

D’Artagnan relaxes his self-control just a little after that, allowing himself breathy gasps of air, a soft groan when he comes; and Aramis kisses the nape of his neck as he wipes away the mixture of oil and come dripping down d’Artagnan’s thighs before leaving him to sort himself out, which seems to d’Artagnan’s swirling mind far more intimate than anything else they’ve done together.

He lets his hand rest for a moment against Aramis’ arm as he goes to mount his horse once more, in – it’s not quite gratitude, but something. Acknowledgement, perhaps.

Neither of them say anything of consequence for a while after that, the weather is good and they’re both content to appreciate the warmth of the sun on their backs and the smooth canter of their mounts; and it isn’t until they’ve stopped for the evening, have eaten their fill and are gazing into the fire that Aramis says apropos of nothing, “I know how you feel, you know.”

D’Artagnan feels his face heating in a way that has nothing to do with the warmth of the fire, his heart suddenly hammering to escape his chest. He’s sorely tempted to argue the point, but grudgingly concedes that Aramis probably does; for good or ill, he’s always worn his emotions plain on his face.

“I was nineteen,” Aramis continues, gazing into the fire, “and a new recruit. He was my sergeant. Lalanche was his name –” and _oh_ , d’Artagnan thinks with a flush of sympathy, though the smile on Aramis’ face is small and fond in the firelight.

“I was terrified when I realised I rather liked it. What that said about me.”

“What did it say?” d’Artagnan asks after a moment, in a voice he barely recognises as his own.

Aramis does look at him then. “Not a thing.” His voice is gentle, and d’Artagnan feels like a child beside him, in need of reassurance despite himself. “It’s just the way it goes.” He rolls his shoulders, working out the kinks of the day. “You’re a pretty thing, d’Artagnan. If it hadn’t been me then it would have been someone else, sooner or later. And it won’t haunt you unless you let it.” He tilts his head, considering. “Put the bottle down.”

No sooner has d’Artagnan set the bottle out of harm’s way than Aramis is upon him, straddling his lap and pushing him down onto his back, where he hovers with his face a few inches above d’Artagnan’s, expectant.

Barely believing his own boldness, d’Artagnan pushes himself up on his elbows to press their lips together for the first time.

He’s half-expecting to be taken and devoured, and half-expecting Aramis to just laugh at him; but he does neither, just smiles, more pleased than d’Artagnan has seen him since all of this started.

“ _There_ we go,” he says, bare hand coming up to cup d’Artagnan’s jaw – and then he moves against him likes a wave, all flowing muscle, his mouth on d’Artagnan’s, kissing him thoroughly as he grinds their hips together. “I knew you’d be a natural.”

D’Artagnan feels as though he’s glowing brighter even than the fire where their groins meet. Want blazes in him like the spark of gunfire, burning all the residual shame away and leaving nothing but need; and his hands are fumbling at the buttons of breeches even before Aramis has had a chance to reach down himself, tangling in laces and wrestling fabric until everything’s down around their knees.

Aramis takes both their cocks in his hand for a moment, coating them liberally with oil; and d’Artagnan can’t help the upward stutter of his hips, half-desperate already for more contact, more friction.

He’s dazed with desire already, and when Aramis leans back over to rut against him he can’t stop the long drawn-out moan that rises up at the drag of their slick cocks together in the cradle of their hips, drunk on pleasure and on the look in Aramis’ eyes.

Aramis makes a soft, pleased sound of his own when d’Artagnan brings his arms up to clutch at Aramis’ shoulders as they rock together, and kisses him mercilessly, both their groans mingling together between their lips as they climax, holding him through the comedown.

Once d’Artagnan recovers himself, he’s expecting Aramis to turn away from him as usual; but he doesn’t, just kissing him again and staying where he is, holding d’Artagnan in a half-embrace. “Just look at you now,” he says, tracing a finger through the pool of come on d’Artagnan’s stomach; and when he smiles, d’Artagnan can’t help smiling back.

“It’s not going to be the same once we get back to the city,” Aramis says, after they’ve been silent for a while; and d’Artagnan flushes at the realisation that Aramis has more or less read his mind. “When one’s at home, one has one’s women. You understand.”

D’Artagnan nods. He’d expected this really, and he’s not _sad_ about it, though perhaps a little wistful.

It makes sense, of course. He doubts they’d have the time, for one.

“But I’ve got a little incentive for you to keep on working hard –” Aramis turns his head to whisper in d’Artagnan’s ear – “ _when you get your commission, I’ll get on my knees for you._ ”

Overcome for a moment, cock twitching again already in anticipation, d’Artagnan’s only response is to turn his head and capture Aramis’ lips in a kiss.

For that, he’ll be the best apprentice Tréville has ever seen.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Campaign Rules](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9119068) by [Thimblerig](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thimblerig/pseuds/Thimblerig)




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